"Hearth"

Baburam stirred the boiling tea, raised the spoon to a height and then dropped the tea back into the vessel. 'Tossing the tea like this makes it more tasty.', he explained to the new help standing right next to him, while greeting the customers who had just joined.

The arrangement of Baburam's tea stall was simple yet warm. There was an earthen hearth under the wooden roof, which itself stood on wooden pillars. There were no walls but plastic sheets covering the four sides, leaving a little space open for the boys to leave. Outside this small kitchen lay a few wooden benches for the customers to sit on and a large plastic sheet covering their heads. The mixture of aroma of tea and the incense from burning wood made the place so warm.

I had been sitting there in my special seat for five minutes, looking at the ways Baburam played with the boiling tea. He poured tea in three steel mugs, smiled at me and said, "Bas, sahib, do minute aur.(Sir, just two more minutes.)" The tea vessel was placed on the stove again. Extra milk, scent of cardamoms and the cream floating in the mug made my tea different from others'.

The special treatment I got in Baburam's tea stall always flattered me. "Yeh hamare master ji hain. Inke liye inki khaas kursi lao. Yeh baqi sab ki tarah in phattun par nahin baithte. Khaas grahak hain hamare. Samjhe? (This is our master ji. Get him his special chair. He doesn't sit on these benches like everyone else. He is our special customer. Understand?)", he explained to every new helper in his stall.

The cream swimming over the casserole of redolence of cardamoms was lying on my table. I was served by the owner himself. Baburam carried a small table and placed it right next to me, sat on it and said, "Sahib, kal pehli taareekh hai. Khatt likhwana tha. (Sir, tomorrow is the first day of new month. Write a letter for me, will you?)".

On the first of every month, Baburam would come to me and ask me to write a letter to his son. His son was away working in some city. Baburam would send him some money and a letter every month.

"Zarur. Baburam, har maheene ek he baat likhwate ho. Kabhi jawab bhi aaya kisi khatt ka?(Sure. Baburam, you ask me to write the same things in your letter every month. Does he ever write back?)", I said as I took out the pen and a notepad from my pocket. "Sahib, woh janta hai ki uska pita padh likh nahin sakta. Kya jawaab dega? (Sahib, he knows his father can not read. What will he reply?"), he smiled and looked down to the ground.

I started writing the letter- 'Dear son, hope you are doing good. Sending some money. Your mom misses you and wishes to see you soon. Take care.' That was all Baburam would want me to write always. He missed his son too but never wrote about it.

Two days later, while I was reading a book at my desk in my room, I sighted Baburam running towards my house. It was raining very heavily. He had covered his head with a piece of cloth that would usually hang around his neck. He took big steps to run faster and prevent his feet from falling into the ruts filled with muddy water. I got up and opened the door. "Kya hua, Baburam? (What is the matter, Baburam?)", I asked. He was in no condition to reply and let himself fall to the ground. He covered his eyes with the cloth and said, "Sahib, meri biwi bimar hai. (Sahib, my wife is sick)".

I had never seen Baburam so helpless. He sat there at my door, panting heavily. He managed to wipe the tears off his face. "Sahib, mere bete ko khatt likhiye aur usse kahiye ki uski maa bohat bimar hai. Usse kahiye ki woh usse bohat yaad karti hai aur ek aakhri baar usse dekhna chahti hai. (Sahib, please write a letter to my son and tell him that his mother is very sick. Tell him she misses him a lot and wants to see him one last time.)", he cried.

"Sahib, Main bhi usse yaad karta hoon lekin uski maa usse bohat yaad karti hai. Isi wajah se woh bimar padh gayi. Doctor kehte hain woh nahin bachegi. Woh bete ke baare mein har waqt poochti rehti hai. Main usse kya kahun? (Sahib, I miss him too but his mother misses him more. That made her sick. Doctor says she won't survive this. She keeps asking about her son all the time. What shall I tell her?)", helpless Baburam expected a solution from his master ji but how could I help when I didn't even know if his son got any letters I wrote.

"Ghar jao, Baburam. Apni biwi ke paas jao. Main tumhare bete ko jald se jald khatt bhej dunga. (Go home, Baburam. Go to your wife. I will post a letter to your son as soon as possible.)", I tried to make him feel better. After he left, I started writing a letter to his son. I told him how much his parents missed him, how thankless he had been for all these years for not replying to any of his father's letter and how he made his mother so sick that she would die soon.

I never saw Baburam after that day. That cold rain destroyed the warmth of his stall too. I wasn't sure if his son got my last letter too or did he not get any. People say that Baburam was not seen by anybody after his wife died.